What The World Needs Now
by Gryph
Summary: Marcy Ward has thoughts and feels about Bobby during Weekend at Bobby's. And a VERY fertile imagination. Written for a fanfic exchange.


_What the world needs now is love, sweet love  
It's the only thing that there's just too little of_

Bobby Singer. Singer Salvage. I wonder if he's got people in that whole sewing machine empire?

Well, even if he doesn't, his salvage business must do _really_ well, what with all those people coming and going at all hours. And he seems to have an awful lot of leisure time. I see him at the library—I do so admire a man who likes books, although I doubt he's checking out the section with all the bodice rippers that I know by heart. Still, he must be well-read with that big stack of books he has tucked under his arm every time he comes out of the library.

I wonder if maybe he's got an online auction shop that deals in rare and antique books?

Well, Marcy Ward, you are the one who chose to move out into the middle of nowhere when you hit the lottery. Get away from the rat race and the publicity hounds. Become just another nobody in a small town full of nothing special. Who knew that within six months, you'd be bored out of your mind?

Bobby spends a lot of time in that herbalist's shop in town. You wouldn't think something so new agey as an _herbalist_ would peddle enough potpourri and spices to stay open in a town like this, but there he is, in there I swear every other day buying a big bag of their wares. I've been known to cook up a good pot roast with some rosemary, basil, and thyme when I want to get fancy, but I can't imagine what he's doing with all those herbs. Unless he's smoking them. Ha!

I wonder if he's a master chef, and he uses all those seasonings and spices to cook up some amazing food. Those boys who are always at his place certainly seem well fed, y'know?

Maybe you wanna rethink this ginger peach cobbler you're about to deliver to his house, girl. He might try one mouthful and spit it out. No, everyone says my cobbler is genius. Besides, the cooking shows always emphasize that the best savory chefs are lousy at making desserts. So even if he is a chef, he'll know a good cobbler when he tastes one.

Should I take a bottle of wine? A nice bottle of white Arbor Mist would bring out the ginger. That's another place around town I see him every couple of days, at the package store. Maybe he's buying cooking sherry. Or what's that other thing that people in the movies always offer after dinner? Oh, yeah, brandy. Maybe a nice brandy. Ha! Get over yourself, girl. Putting on airs ain't gonna impress a man who wears that much plaid flannel.

Well, it's been six months since you moved here, time to meet the neighbor!

* * *

So Mister Bobby Singer likes horror flicks. Guilty pleasure, huh? I wonder why he doesn't want to see _Drag Me To Hell_? Well, I'd be happy to snuggle up on the sofa and grab on to him tight when they get to the scary parts! And once he tastes my white chocolate popcorn, he'll forget all about whatever he has against that movie.

Unless maybe he's a professional movie critic, like those two guys who used to sit in an empty theater and argue over movies. Oh, what were their names? Cistern and Enerd? Sisel and Eggbert? No, no, that's not it. Siskel! And... Ebert. Yeah, those guys. _At The Movies_. I used to _love_ that show, especially the way they'd argue when one of them liked horror movies and one of them thought they were trashy.

And why did I tell him that my woodchipper was broken! That was lame, lame, lame. I guess it could be worse; I could have said that my Singer is broken. Even he'd have had a hard time not rolling his eyes over that one. Still, how's it going to look when he comes over to "fix" it, and it starts right up? Maybe I can throw a wrench into it, or pull some wires somewhere, something he can fix easily. Although, it's totally true that I've heard he's very handy.

I wonder if he's one of those mechanical geniuses, like that guy in that flying suit in those superhero movies. He's certainly got enough spare parts laying around in his salvage yard that he could build just about anything. Like that old TV show where the junkman build a space rocket in his barn. Now _that_ would be exciting.

Oh good lord, girl, you watch too much television. Not that the books you read are much better, phhhtttp.

If my life was a romance novel, Bobby would show up on my doorstep tonight, declare that he couldn't live without me, and sweep me off my feet. He'd carry me into to my bedroom and—

Whoa, slow down there, missy. What is this, a hot flash? Man hasn't even agreed to have dinner with you yet, and you've got him in your bedroom about to make sweet love to you. Well, as Mister Barry Manilow always says, it's what the world needs now. And I'll tell ya true, there's definitely too little of it in my life these days.

Maybe I should change out of this flannel granny nightgown and into something with just a bit more va-va-voom to it. Y'know, just in case. A girl can have her hopes and dreams.

Hey, I don't remember leaving that window open...

* * *

Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, OH MY GOSH.

WHAT was that _thing_ that Bobby Singer just threw into my woodchipper?!

Him busting down my door wasn't _exactly_ what I had in mind when I imagined him showing up here tonight! With a shotgun, no less!

Forget all that other stuff! Now I'm wondering if Mister Bobby Singer isn't actually a serial killer, a mass murderer. I wonder how many bodies he's got stashed in all those junk cars in his salvage yard!

But seriously, what the heck was that _thing_, clinging to my ceiling like a giant freaky bat! All I saw was a mouthful of sharp teeth, like some Bella Swan wannabee—I _loved_ those movies, by the way, and Edward and Jacob would be totally dreamy if they weren't so young—but this? This was like some weird fans gone wild thing.

And then, Bobby has the _nerve_ to offer to still come over to dinner! There I am, standing _covered_ in blood and gore, and _now_ he's interested in making nicey-poo? I don't think so, MISTER.

I'm gonna call Sheriff Mills! She'll get to the bottom of this.

Wait, what? How in the world does Sheriff Mills _not_ think this is some seriously freaky stuff? Bobby Singer may have just saved me from some "suspicious character" who is wanted for questioning by the FBI in connection with a suspected murder? What!

Okay, everyone just hold on one hot minute here. Is Sheriff Mills trying to _not_ tell me that Bobby has connections to the FBI? And if so, why _can't_ she tell me what those connections are? She seems to have an awful lot of confidence that Bobby is one of the good guys. Which means that what's he doing is on the hush-hush, and maybe you need some sort of government security clearance to know about it?

Oh...

Oh...

OH! Wow! That must mean...

Bobby Singer is some sort of secret agent?

That's it, I've got a genuine spook living in the house next door! After all, who would suspect super secret spy activities going on in this little backwoods town?

Well now, maybe I'll wait a few weeks for whatever case he's working right now to wrap up, and then pay him another visit. Just to show that there are no hard feelings.

I wonder if he likes pot roast?


End file.
